It’s only recently that I’ve actually made the statement, I am mentally disabled. I cannot have a job and make a living.
    I lived with my family until I was 31. When they kicked me out I took some jobs—housekeeper, attendant. It was extremely painful. I was being exploited and degraded.
    I have half a dozen misdemeanor convictions, for bashing windows, pouring paint on a police car. I was looking for a career place to live, but I couldn’t get more than 60 days. 
    I’ve had fairly lightweight contact with the mental health system, on an open psych ward. I said, “Please, check me in, there’s nowhere for me to go.” And they did.  
    

     One year ago I walked out on the streets thinking I was going out there to die. But I got off the streets by walking into Support Services Shelter. 
    It’s a refuge and a sanctuary in the women’s dorm. Men confront me on the street all day and I have to defend myself. But they don’t bother me at the shelter. These guys need that bunk.
    I feel that my life is better being mentally disabled than if I was not. Everyone who’s adjusted to manage in the world pays a price. Most people’s jobs are really a matter of slavery. I will not permit myself to be degraded and abused. 
    I don’t think I’m sick. It has to do with an integrity, and a self love.